


Fragments

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Hidden Talents, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Snippets, Surprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 14,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: A collection of fragments, either missing scenes from my other stories or random scribblings too small to warrant their own postings. Each chapter stands alone
Comments: 9
Kudos: 21





	1. Swim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from One-Sentence Stories, chapter 1: Swim

His ears still rang from the explosion. It was a miracle he had gotten them clear of the wreckage.

“Holmes.”

The detective remained limp against his shoulder as he fought to keep them both afloat.

“Holmes, you need to wake up.”

No answer. His shoulder was all but useless, stiff in all the wrong places. He was holding them up with one arm and his legs, and that only barely.

A piece of wood drifted by, and he grabbed it, using it to keep his friend’s head out of the water.

How were they going to get out of this?


	2. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ties with Counting

“Mr. Holmes, why is your door open?”

“Are you alright?”

“How long have you been staring at that telegram?”

“Inspector Lestrade?...This is Harold Stackhurst. Mr. Holmes received a telegram today…Yes, it’s about Doctor Watson…Do you need a ride from the station?...See you then.”

“How is he?”

“Hasn’t said a word.”

“Holmes, you have to eat something.”

“Ashes.”

“What about ashes?” No reply. “You need to eat.”

“Eat something. Anything.”

“Why?”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Don’t miss your train.”

“I shouldn’t leave you.”

“Get back to your wife. I will be… fine alone.”

“Stay with him.”

“Of course.”

“Doctor Watson!”


	3. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from One-Sentence Stories, chapter 2: Dark

He woke to darkness.

Trying to move, he realized bonds had appeared around his wrists and ankles. What had happened? Where was he? He tried to roll over, and failed at even that, the pounding in his head reaching a crescendo.

Resisting the urge to groan and laying still to let the pain subside, he tried to focus his vision, a difficult thing with a concussion. Blackness, no matter how hard he strained. A vague sort of fear shot through him, and he strained harder. He _had_ to see.

"Awake?" the whisper barely reached his ears in time with another spike in pain, and he didn't completely stifle the groan that time. A faint sigh of relief reached him, and fingers brushed his wrist.

"The light broke," again, the whisper was barely audible, "but I know the way."

His bonds loosened, but his sigh of relief had a different cause.


	4. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to make it a 221b, but it wouldn’t cooperate, so it’s a triple drabble and a half (is there a word for that?) same night as Courage

He opened his eyes to the darkness of his room, wondering what had awoken him. All was silent for a long moment before it came again: a faint noise coming from the sitting room.

He got up, padding softly out to find Watson asleep on the settee.

He was unsurprised the doctor had chosen to sleep in the sitting room instead of his bedroom. Watson’s unease had still been very much in evidence when he had finally gone to bed in the small hours of the morning. Finding the snake in his bedroom had shaken him badly, and he wondered what it was like to have such an all-consuming fear of something.

Another thought crossed his mind, and he suppressed a shiver of his own and amended his original thought: he wondered what it was like to have such an all-consuming fear of something _harmless_. Everyone feared something, he knew, some spiders, some snakes, some other physical things, but people who feared none of those often feared something much less tangible, and much harder to avoid. He had never decided which was better: to fear something harmless but completely illogical, or to fear something logical but certainly _not_ harmless.

He pushed the question aside as the faint noise sounded again, identifiable now as murmuring. Watson moved restlessly, twitching on the settee and obviously caught in a nightmare. He wondered what to do. Would Watson want to be woken, or would it embarrass him?

Watson started thrashing, and he worried the doctor was going to throw himself off the settee.

“Watson!” He put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, both to wake him up and to prevent him from falling. “Watson, it is just a dream.”

Watson started awake, sitting up so quickly despite the hand on his shoulder that they nearly knocked heads. His eyes were wide, and he was hyperventilating, gasping for air as if he had just run a marathon.

“It was a dream, Watson.”

The relief and thanks in Watson’s gaze was enough to keep him in the sitting room instead of returning to his own bed.


	5. Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From One-Sentence Stories chapter 2: Hide

“Watson!” He stormed his way into the sitting room. “Why do you keep hiding my things?!”

I turned to another page of the paper I had picked up in a hurry, hiding my smirk behind the pages. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Then why is your paper upside down?”

Blast his perceptiveness. “Because I’m not reading the paper,” I admitted, finishing with, “I’m reading the magazine I have in it.”

I was a horrible liar, and we both knew it. I fought to keep my voice steady, rattling off the half-truth while hiding my face behind the paper. I must have succeeded, for his voice gained a suspicious edge.

“What magazine?”

I dared to peek at him over the paper, one eyebrow raised.

“Are you sure you want to know that?” I asked, then looked back at the paper, though I kept him in sight as I let his imagination do the work for me.

He colored spectacularly and hurriedly returned to his room in his hunt for his dressing gown.

I lowered the paper with a grin, revealing his favorite pipe I held in my lap, and looked around for a place to hide it.


	6. Surprise Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B times 5. AU of Doctor’s and Their Uses

As irritated as Watson was at the medical discharge, his grin of excitement spread nearly from ear to ear, no matter how he tried to hide it, as he stood on the Sussex platform once more. It had been over a year since his enlistment, and while he had felt it his duty to enlist in the war effort, his discharge meant he could return to retirement with Holmes in their Sussex cottage.

He looked around the station, searching for a familiar face. Telegrams were running slow with the war, but he knew Holmes would be at the station if he had gotten the message.

Very few others stood on the small country station’s platform, however, and they soon disappeared.

He shrugged and set off walking. The cottage wasn’t far, and he hadn’t seen his dearest friend in nearly a year. He could wait the few minutes’ walk to the cottage.

The countryside was beautiful, but he saw very little of it, walking as quickly as his leg allowed in his haste to get home.

Home. He smiled at the thought. He was home, or he would be in a few minutes.

The road twisted and turned, eventually coming to a small two-bedroom cottage that overlooked the sea. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, and he watched carefully over the grounds. Holmes could be anywhere this time of day, and Watson grinned at finally being able to surprise his friend. He had rarely been able to over the years, Holmes’ deductions giving away every attempt before it could play out.

With no sign of Holmes anywhere outside, he headed for the front door, barely noting the window that had been left open. He debated letting himself in, but thought better of it and knocked.

No answer, and no movement from within. He frowned. Had Holmes run to town? He knocked again.

“Holmes?”

The door remained shut, but he heard something through the open window. He knocked again.

Still no answer.

Now beginning to worry, he dug his key out of his valise and let himself in. Had Holmes injured himself, somehow?

The sitting room was dark, as was the kitchen. The curtains were still drawn completely over the windows despite the afternoon sun. He walked in further, leaving his bag by the door.

“Holmes, are you here?”

Another faint noise reached his ears, and he realized it had come from the sitting room. He threw open the curtains and turned around.

“Holmes!”

The retired detective sat in his chair, apparently unaware he was no longer alone. His gaze remained locked on the paper he held in a trembling hand. Watson moved closer, leaning over as he tried to get Holmes’ attention, tried to figure out what was wrong.

“Holmes, can you hear me?”

Holmes started that time and slowly looked up into Watson’s worried gaze.

“Holmes?” Watson asked. “You’re beginning to worry me, Holmes. What’s wrong?”

Recognition crossed Holmes’ face mixed with confusion, then horror, and he leapt out of his chair, stopping a few steps away in the middle of the room. He nearly shied away even as he stared at Watson, as if unsure whether he should stay or run. Watson’s worry grew and mixed with concern.

“Holmes?” What was going on?

Holmes stared at him for a long moment, then he swayed, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Wrenching his shoulder and straining his knee in the process, Watson barely managed to catch the detective before his head impacted the floor. He was more focused on his friend than his injuries, however. What could have caused Holmes to drop in a dead faint? Had he been skipping meals again?

Limping his friend over to the settee, he caught the paper that fell out of Holmes’ limp hand. It was a telegram.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP JOHN WATSON REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPT 7TH 1915 STOP DEEPEST CONDOLENCES FINAL STOP

Watson’s heart dropped. The telegram had beaten him here, yes, but his friend had received the wrong one. A brief thought crossed his mind wondering if Private Watson’s family had also received the wrong telegram.

Discarding the telegram for the moment, he pulled his medical bag closer to the settee and grabbed an ammonia tablet, waving it under the detective’s nose.

Holmes flinched, then slowly blinked his eyes open and focused on Watson, who was kneeling painfully in front of him.

“Holmes? Can you hear me?”

Grief crossed Holmes’ face, and his gaze strayed to the drawer where his cocaine had been in Baker Street. Watson easily deduced his thoughts.

“You’re not hallucinating, Holmes. You received the wrong telegram.”

Holmes’ gaze focused again on Watson, and Watson nearly flinched at how empty it was. The spark in Holmes’ eyes was dead, dimmer than any Black Mood had rendered it over the years.

“Holmes?”

“Watson.”

The normally confident voice was hoarse, lost, and Watson’s worry grew. How long had Holmes been sitting in a dark room, staring blankly at a mistaken telegram?

“Holmes, I’m not dead, and you’re not hallucinating. You received the wrong telegram.”

Slowly, so slowly Watson had begun to fear that Holmes was too lost in his grief to hear his assurances, Holmes’ expression began to clear.

“Watson?” He slowly pushed himself upright, his gaze never leaving his friend, who was still kneeling painfully.

“I’m here, Holmes.”

Hope sparked back to life in Holmes’ eyes, and his hand came to rest on Watson’s shoulder. A moment later, the largest smile Watson had ever seen spread across Holmes’ face.

“ _Watson.”_

Watson found himself clasped in an embrace so swift he had no time to return it before he was being held at arm’s length as Holmes’ keen gaze scanned him for injuries.

“What did you do to your shoulder?”

Watson nearly laughed as Holmes studiously ignored his own reaction by calling out Watson’s injury.

“You know,” he answered, “for all that you’re thin as a whip, you’re surprisingly heavy.”

Surprise crossed Holmes’ face at the comment, and Watson gingerly levered himself into the nearby armchair.

Surreptitiously massaging his aching leg, Watson glanced up to see Holmes’ face furrowed in concentration, obviously trying to figure out what Watson’s comment had to do with the question.

“You cannot seriously think I would let you hit the floor?”

Holmes’ furrowed brow relaxed into a sheepish look, but Watson cut off the forming apology, directing Holmes to a package in the top of his valise.

Upon seeing the package’s contents, the awkward discussion was tabled for another time in favor of filling the room with a playful banter.


	7. Devastating News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically, a 221b times 8, though that word count is so high it’s nearly it’s own oneshot, lol. Holmes’ pov of previous. AU of Counting

He had to force himself to not count the days. He had spent two years fulfilling his own duty; he could hardly begrudge the doctor’s willingness to follow.

It was difficult, though. Through the two years he had been gone, his image, the thread he had used to keep himself sane as he did his job, was the hope of finally convincing Watson to move to Sussex. He knew his old friend was growing tired of treating patients, and he had planned another point in the as-yet imagined argument convincing Watson to move nearly every day.

Then the work was done. It was in someone else’s hands, and he could return to Sussex, his bees, and nearly decade-old argument of why Watson should move.

Finally, _finally,_ the stubborn doctor had given in, and he had secretly celebrated, doing everything he could to aid in the packing, the moving, the selling of the practice to a younger doctor. His friend was back under the same roof. There would be no more late-night phone calls where the only sounds were the rustling papers of two old friends simply being in the other’s presence. There would be no more too-short weekends when the doctor could get away, or the all-too-frequent cancelled plans when an emergency patient had shown up just before the doctor had to leave to catch his train.

Watson was home, and that meant he was, too.

And then Watson had enlisted.

He had tried to talk the doctor out of it, using every argument he could think of, to no use. Watson had made up his mind. The fortnight’s notice he had been given had flown far too quickly.

He resorted to counting. Days of sun in a row. Number of bees on the flowers. Number of constellations he could remember from the astronomy lessons long ago. It occupied him, yes, but it didn’t fulfill him.

He never admitted it aloud, or even fully to himself, but he knew exactly how many days it had been since Watson had enlisted, had finished packing, had shipped out; he spent more time wondering how many it would be before he came home.

He didn’t know whether to hope for an early return—that had its own ramifications—or a long enlistment—he would surely go mad if the war lasted the years Mycroft predicted.

His one consolation was Mycroft’s promise: should the worst happen, he would not hear by telegram.

He clung to that. He would not hear the worst news by telegram. If something happened, he would find out from his brother, not from a telegram. Mycroft had access to the casualty lists, and he would call. Mycroft would call.

He soon began to hate the sound of a ringing telephone, but Mycroft was never on the other end. The summer passed slowly, days feeling like weeks as they stretched into months. Some nights, he could hear the sounds of battle drifting on the wind from across the channel, and he wondered where Watson was. Was he there, separated only by the distance of a few miles, though it felt he was half a world away?

He returned to counting, anything to keep his vivid imagination from running away with him. Trees changing early within sight of his bee meadow. Flashes of lighting in one of the season’s last few thunderstorms. Birds visiting the feeder Watson had established behind the cottage. He convinced himself Watson would be fine, would return after the war was done, safe and whole.

And then the boy from the village came running down the lane, telegram in hand.

He barely remembered seeing the boy off, and nearly slammed the door in his haste to open the yellow envelope, wondering what it was. So few communicated by telegram anymore, and never with him. Anyone who needed to reach him had access to their own telephone. He never expected its contents.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP JOHN WATSON REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPT 7TH 1915 STOP DEEPEST CONDOLENCES FINAL STOP

Inside, he felt something shatter, and he sank into his nearby armchair, trying to make sense of the paper that trembled before him.

_Killed in action._

No. No, it wasn’t possible. Watson would be fine. He would come home, safe, whole.

_Killed in action_.

Please, no.

_Killed in action._

The words seemed to mock him. He felt stuck, more and more pieces shattering around him.

He knew he should get up. The curtains were still pulled, and Watson had always hated leaving the sitting room dark. The first thing he did each morning was pull open all the curtains and let light flood the front rooms. He should open them, as he had every day since Watson had enlisted, and he needed to see to his bees, but all he could think through the fog in which he found himself was that he was alone, and Mycroft had broken his promise.

Mycroft had broken his promise. And he was alone.

Alone.

Time passed in a haze. He had no idea when he ate or slept, or even if he did at all. Was it still the same day? Or had the world moved on without him? Was he still in his chair, staring at a telegram he couldn’t understand? The words of the telegram played over and over in his mind. He was unable to escape this waking nightmare.

Gone. Dead. Injured. Broken.

He hated his wide vocabulary in that moment, as his vivid imagination took to supplying every synonym of dead intermixed with speculations of _how_. Had it been quick? Had his friend been alone?

He tried his old trick, tried to count things, but he had seen too many gruesome murder scenes and heard too many of the doctor’s nightmares to not be able to piece together a vivid picture of how it _might_ have happened. Victims of previous cases began flickering through his memory, all with Watson’s face, and he was powerless to stop them.

A noise infiltrated his thoughts, but he paid it no heed. Was it even real? The telegram consumed him.

Another noise. Pounding? And a voice, but what was it saying? He disregarded it. What did it matter, anyway?

The voice came again, slowly breaking into his absorption, saying something. His name? He didn’t know. Words held no meaning. Did any other words even exist, except those from the telegram? _Dead. Gone. Killed in action._

Light broke into his awareness, followed by that voice again.

“Holmes!”

Who was speaking to him? What were they saying?

_Killed in action. Dead. Gone. Broken._

What did it matter what they said, or if they were even there? All that mattered was that he was alone.

“Holmes, can you hear me?”

The voice was close, in the cottage with him. That wasn’t right. He lived alone. He looked up. Someone was kneeling in front of him, someone who looked very familiar.

He started, jumping across the room to get away from this hallucination. He was dead. Watson was dead. So how was he standing in his sitting room?

“Holmes? You’re beginning to worry me, Holmes. What’s wrong?”

He stared a moment longer, trying to see the telltale signs of a hallucination. Was Watson transparent? Was his voice off, whether staccato or watery? Maybe he shimmered, like a mirage?

“Holmes?”

Nothing. Watson appeared to be standing in front of him, impossibly alive, worried, and talking to him. Darkness began encroaching on his vision.

He opened his eyes without having realized he had closed them. He was on the settee. The face of his dearest friend hovered in front of him.

“Holmes? Can you hear me?” The phantom was back.

Had he taken cocaine, that he would be hallucinating so? He didn’t remember taking it. He wasn’t entirely sure he had any—he hadn’t injected himself in years—but that was the only explanation for how he could be seeing his dead friend in their sitting room.

“You’re not hallucinating, Holmes. You received the wrong telegram.”

This hallucination could read his thoughts. The others couldn’t do that. He turned to look at it, at the image of his dearest friend, before it shimmered and disappeared back to wherever illusions go.

“Holmes?”

He may as well answer, he supposed. He rarely spoke to hallucinations, but, then, Watson wasn’t around anymore to chide him for speaking to air.

“Watson.”

Was that his voice? He had no idea and found he hadn’t the strength to care either. What did it matter?

“Holmes, I’m not dead, and you’re not hallucinating. You received the wrong telegram.”

The words slowly ordered themselves in his mind, and he gradually understood what they meant.

“Watson?” He pushed himself upright, his eyes never leaving the image of his friend in front of him.

“I’m here, Holmes.”

It couldn’t be. The telegram had said…but the one in front of him had said... Which one could he believe?

His hand came to rest on a shoulder, a solid shoulder.

He wasn’t hallucinating. Watson was _here_ , not dead, not bleeding on some forsaken battlefield.

“ _Watson._ ” He again barely recognized his own voice, but this time for the opposite reason. Needing to be sure, he used his hand on the other man’s shoulder to pull him close. Both arms wrapped around something _solid_.

He wasn’t alone.

He pushed back just as quickly. His friend had come home early from a war zone. He scanned for injuries, quickly noting the awkward position of Watson’s— _Watson’s!_ —bad shoulder.

“What did you do to your shoulder?”

“You know,” came the teasing answer, “for all that you’re thin as a whip, you’re surprisingly heavy.”

What did that have to do with it?

He tried to find the relevance between question and answer as Watson carefully lifted himself to sit awkwardly in his armchair. Watson massaged his bad leg, trying to hide his movements. Something had aggravated his old wounds, but what?

“You cannot seriously think I would let you hit the floor?”

The confusion faded as he remembered the darkness, then the settee. He tried to form an apology, for injuring Watson, for Watson needing to catch him, for fainting, but Watson cut him off, directing him to pull a package from the valise by the door.

He nearly laughed when he saw what was in it, remembering one of their discussions just before Watson had left. He indulged the banter for which he knew Watson had been hoping.

Watson was back where he belonged. He was home. They both were.

Counting was no longer needed, whether days, weeks, stars, or bees.


	8. Retirement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double 221B. Watson tries to surprise Holmes

Watson schooled his face into a serious mien as he knocked on the door. If he could pull this off, he might be able to surprise his friend for the first time, ever.

The curtain twitched, then the door flew open.

“Watson! You did not tell me you were coming by.”

He paused mid-step and looked up at the detective, trying to affect a hesitant questioning.

“Did I need to?”

Holmes’ eyes widened as he realized how that had sounded, and he nearly stumbled over his words, “No, of course, not! I just—”

Watson smiled, taking pity on his backpedaling friend, and Holmes huffed, leading the way into the sitting room. “You are getting better at that.”

Watson chuckled. “I’ll admit an ulterior motive,” he said, referring to his surprise arrival. “I came for some advice.”

“Oh?” Holmes leaned forward, automatically falling into the listening position he had assumed on so many cases in years past. “Pray tell.”

“I’m hoping you can tell me about the area. Even living in London so long, I don’t know the surrounding areas well, and I find myself in need of a new practice.” Holmes sat up straight, staring at him intently, and he struggled to keep his expression serious. Grinning would give him away much too quickly.

“What kind of a practice? Do you have a location in mind?”

He pretended to think about that, wondering if Holmes was truly taken in or just playing along. He suspected the latter. “I think I would like to look for one near the Sussex Downs. I only need a room or two, so I wouldn’t mind lodging with someone, if you know of anyone looking for a roommate.”

Holmes stared at him for a long moment, and it took everything in him not to grin at the dumbfounded expression on the retired detective’s face. He hadn’t been playing along; Holmes had completely not expected that.

“Are you saying—?” Holmes broke off, not wanting to put words in his friend’s mouth. In the months since his return, Holmes had nearly given up hoping that Watson would _ever_ retire.

The grin Watson had been fighting to suppress finally escaped, giving Holmes his answer.

“You know, I know just the place.” Holmes had conquered his expression, but Watson, who knew him so well, could see he was immensely pleased. “He keeps bees as a pastime and spends a lot of time at the library in town. Used to work in London, you know, and likes to keep up on the news. He lives alone in a cottage overlooking the sea, and I know there is an empty bedroom.”


	9. Chemistry Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In To Rest, Watson thought he could sleep through an explosion, he was so tired. How would he know that?

Holmes stood at his chemistry set, doing nothing in particular except passing the time and trying to stay quiet. Watson was asleep on the settee behind him, finally resting for the first time in days, and Holmes wanted him to continue sleeping. He deserved the rest after staying up with Holmes both on a case and through the case’s unfortunate aftereffects.

He picked up a new agent he had found a few days before and began experimenting with it, making notes as to which chemicals it reacted with and how after checking the chemical equations, a frequent pastime of his. Why rely on others’ observations when he could use his own?

He must have made a mistake on one equation, however, because it did not produce the reaction he had been expecting.

Immediately after introducing the reactant, the mixture started bubbling when he had expected it to change color. Before he could neutralize the reaction, it exploded in a burst of light and sound, sending a cloud of fumes into the air.

Coughing, he threw open a window, expecting the half-asleep doctor to grumpily join him as they waited for the air to clear. Watson would be grumpy both over being woken and for falling asleep to begin with. The doctor had intended to run to the pharmacy an hour ago, but Holmes saw no reason to wake him.

It was only when the air began to clear that he realized he was alone at the window, and he spun around.

Watson lay on the settee, apparently still asleep, and Holmes frowned. In the few years they had roomed together, Watson had woken at a moments’ notice for patients and the occasional midnight case. How could he have slept through that explosion when the smallest sound from Holmes stuck in a nightmare would have him coming down the stairs?

“Watson?”

“Hmm?” was the sleepy reply.

“Alright, Watson?”

Watson hummed an affirmative, still mostly asleep, before cracking an eye open. “Why?”

Watson registered the fumes at the same time that he focused on Holmes’ disheveled appearance, and he coughed a few times, burying his head in the back of the settee.

“What’d you do, Holmes?”

Holmes barely understood the slightly muffled question and shrugged, his focus still on his flatmate. “Reaction played out differently than expected. Do you sleep through explosions often?”

Watson huffed a still half-asleep laugh. “Only at war and near consulting detectives.”

Watson still had his face turned toward the settee, and Holmes let the smile escape. “And you say I sleep like a rock.”

“No,” came the correction. “I said you sleep like a cat.”

Holmes thought about that. What did a pesky feline have to do with his sleeping habits?

Watson cracked an eye open again at the silence. “Up to twenty hours a day,” he clarified, “and you ignore anything that wakes you up.”

Holmes’ quiet bark of laughter went unnoticed. Watson was already asleep again.


	10. Acting Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another consequence of the Hiatus. 221B*4

Holmes paced in front of the fireplace, clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe as Watson read a book in his armchair.

“What is it, Holmes?” Watson finally asked with a sigh, his gaze never leaving the novel. Holmes’ restlessness was preventing him from focusing on his book, and it would be better to try to help now than to wait for Holmes to work himself into a mood.

“What is what?” came the distracted answer as Holmes continued pacing.

“You have been pacing for nearly two hours now when I thought you had traced Johnson to The Hopper,” was Watson’s somewhat frustrated reply. “Why are you here instead of following him?”

A growl of frustration came out of the cloud of smoke. “I am waiting for the Irregulars to tell me he has moved somewhere else. I have used all my disguises too recently. Charlie returned with a list of men he has seen in the area the last several days, and too many of them would recognize me.”

Watson thought a moment. “All you need is information, correct?” Silence answered him, and he continued. “I could go.”

Through the smoke, he faintly saw Holmes shake his head. “You would be recognized as well.”

Watson huffed a laugh, surprised he knew something that Holmes did not, and set his book aside. “I will be back in a moment.”

Leaving Holmes pacing in the sitting room, he went around through the stairwell into Holmes’ room, deciding to see if he could pull this off.

* * *

About ten minutes later, a knock sounded on the sitting room door.

“Hello?” came a thick Scottish accent. “This be the home o’ Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes?”

“Yes, can I—” Holmes turned to find a familiar-looking working-class immigrant hovering in the doorway.

He hesitated, studying the older man for several seconds. He opened his mouth to ask a question but hesitated again, his gaze sweeping over the man’s posture and appearance once more before he relaxed.

“Where did you learn that?”

A faint grin flickered across on the man’s face, but the accent remained. “Where did I learn what, laddie? ‘N kin I sit? The wee bairn don the stree’ gaw a new ‘ammer last holiday.”

A trace of hesitation returned to Holmes’ gaze as the man made his way to the settee, a slight limp showing in his gait. Seating himself in his armchair, Holmes studied the man before him, searching for the data he needed to prove the man’s identity.

Before he could find the words to ask the client’s reason for coming—or tell Watson to drop the act. He was still not completely positive which was needed—the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson bustled through, tray in hand.

“Oh!” She paused a step beyond the door as two sets of eyes glanced over. “My apologies, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t realize you had a client.”

She turned to walk out, and the man’s faint grin changed into a very wide—very familiar—smirk.

The surprise Holmes knew was in his gaze only made the smirk widen. “What information do you need?” Watson’s familiar voice resounded in stark contrast to his appearance, and Holmes did not try to check the bark of surprised laughter.

“Why did you not tell me that you could act so well?” Holmes asked, studying Watson’s disguise.

“Why would I need to?” was the reply. “You are the one who taught me about disguises. You spent hours teaching me how to build a proper disguise with your materials.”

“Yes, but you have never been able to pull them off. Remember the Cooper case?”

The smirk still on Watson’s face faltered a bit before returning. “I learned a lot while you were gone,” he said simply.

Holmes saw a different sort of acting begin as Watson’s amusement changed from genuine to partially faked, and the guilt that had chased him since his return to London flared painfully. It was his fault that Watson had learned such a thing, then, no matter how useful it could be to his cases, now.

“Well, then.” He leaned back in his chair, still studying the man opposite him. “I doubt you would need to speak much. I expect Johnson to mostly be drinking, but the more he drinks, the more he speaks—and the shorter his temper.”

Watson nodded. “I understand ye,” he replied in that strange accent. “Dae ye know his looks?”

“You will recognize him. Johnson operated under the name “Edwards” in that fighting ring we broke up last month.”

Watson nodded in recognition and stood. “Ah shuid return in a few hours.”

Holmes nodded. “Four hours,” he said firmly. “And Watson?”

Watson stopped near the door, looking over his shoulder.

Holmes fought for words. _I wish you had not learned to act because of me. I wish you had not gone through that._

_I am sorry._

The words refused to come, but Watson seemed to understand, anyway. He nodded sadly and walked out the door, leaving Holmes alone in the sitting room.

Yes, Watson’s newfound acting ability would frequently be useful in their cases, but he did not believe the benefits were worth the cost Watson had paid—was still paying.

Would he ever be able to make up for the cycle of pain he had begun?


	11. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson learns something new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after The Gift of Music  
> 221B * 3

She glanced at the clock. Mr. Holmes had said he would be back by seven. The hands read half past five, and she settled into her chair. She had a few minutes to read a chapter before she needed to begin cooking. It had been a busy week, and she had not had a spare moment to read in days.

Something interrupted her concentration after only a few minutes, however, and she looked up. An old folk song drifted down from the unit above, and she wondered if her lodger had returned early. How had she not heard him enter? He rarely refrained from slamming the door on any given day.

Besides, since when did he play folk songs? His preferences leaned more toward the classical music on which he had learned.

That folk song ended and another began, and a tune she faintly recognized drifted through the ceiling above. She got up to investigate, wondering when her more eccentric lodger had taken up playing old Scottish folk songs.

The music grew louder as she climbed the stairs, until even the neighbors could likely hear the rousing beat, and she smiled. Whatever his reason for the change in genre, the detective was at least in a good mood.

Mr. Holmes had never minded before when she watched him play, and she pushed open the door only to stop in surprise.

Doctor Watson spun around at the sound of the door, the music stopping nearly mid-note as his sheepish gaze met her surprised one.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Was I bothering you?”

She fought to speak through her surprise as the doctor turn to put the instrument away. Since when had the doctor been able to play?

“No!” He turned to look at her, pausing his movement, and she finally found her words. “No, you were not bothering me.” She stared at the instrument in his hand. It looked like a violin, but weren’t violins smaller? “I thought Mr. Holmes had returned, and I came to…ask if supper was wanted earlier than what he had requested this morning.” She would not admit she had come upstairs to watch him play, not until she knew whether the action would have been welcome.

A gentle smile crossed the doctor’s face. “No, Mrs. Hudson. I doubt Holmes will be back early, and I’m afraid I could not resist playing a bit.” He gently ran a finger down the instrument’s side. “I will stop if it bothers you.”

“Not a bit, Doctor,” she quickly denied, then hesitated, staring at the instrument. “Is that a violin?”

He shook his head. “It is a viola; similar, but slightly larger. Do you play?”

“The girl’s school I attended taught everyone the basics of piano, but I never went further. I love music, though. I sometimes come up to watch Mr. Holmes play.”

He smirked. “I imagine you would have to use the music to gauge his mood before you did so,” he said, and she chuckled. Both of them knew well that the detective’s moods could vary greatly. What would be welcome one time might be scorned another, in a different mood.

He hefted the instrument again, and she noticed he held the viola in his right hand, probably due to his bad shoulder.

“Any requests? I know more folk songs than Holmes does.”

The door opened again an hour later, and she glanced over from her seat on the settee to see Mr. Holmes stride in with a satisfied smile. He said nothing, however, only lifting his violin from its case on his desk.

Supper was a bit later than originally intended, as Mrs. Hudson could not bring herself to return to the kitchen when her lodgers started tossing a melody back and forth between octaves. She allowed the music to draw her in. She would find out later how she had not known the doctor could play so well, but for now, she would simply enjoy the rousing beat.


	12. Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parting. Two weeks after JWP #13: Forget-me-not

They stood together on the train platform, one preparing to go, one dreading to stay. Crowds bustled around them, a constant dialogue filling the station, but they said nothing. All the words they needed had already been exchanged back at the cottage.

Or so they thought.

The train pulled up, coming to a halt, and they shook hands, two old friends parting for a time. The shorter one picked up his bag and boarded the train. Glancing back at his friend once more, he turned to the compartments, but the one on the platform called out before his friend could leave his sight.

“Watson?”

Watson turned, looking back to catch Holmes’ gaze.

“Return.”

A smile flickered across Watson’s face, reading everything he had meant in that same word so many years before, and he nodded. He would do his best.

His best was all Holmes had ever needed.


	13. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at how Holmes’ day with Mycroft in FINA might have ended

“Why are you giving me this?”

He looked up from the will in his hand, and his brother shifted in his chair at the other side of the table.

“I told you that months ago.”

A faint frown flickered across his face. “You told me that Moriarty was dangerous,” he replied, “and that I needed to remain far from your investigation, not that you expected him to kill you.”

A flick of the thin hand brushed the correction away. “This is merely a precaution. If the Yard succeeds, we will return in a week.”

Sherlock let the sentence drop, and a long pause filled the space between them as he studied his brother, picking up every nuance, every twitch, every clue in the way only a Holmes could. There was another plan in motion that Sherlock did not want to announce.

“And if the Yard fails?”

His brother hesitated a moment longer before answering with a sigh. “If the Yard fails, Moriarty will be on our trail. I plan to lead him to Reichenbach Falls.”

He understood Sherlock’s meaning in an instant, leaning back in his chair with a true frown. “And the doctor?”

“Drawn away with a faked note describing a patient back at the inn. He will see through the hoax eventually, but by then, he will be safe, able to return to Mary.”

Mycroft did not answer for a moment, waiting to speak until he could continue past the idea that his little brother was planning his death. “There is another way that confrontation can go, Sherlock. What do you do if the local officials charge you both with murder?”

The detective shook his head somewhat sadly, fidgeting with the tablecloth to avoid eye contact. “I do not expect that outcome, but…” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “Watson will safely know nothing about it, and if Moriarty escapes the Yard, I will likely be unable to return no matter the results at the falls. Moriarty has a lieutenant of whom the Yard has no knowledge, and Moran knows about Watson. I must take care of him before returning to London.”

“You would fake your death?”

“It is better than the alternative.”

“Only if the alternative is your actual death, Sherlock. You know he would rather accompany you.”

“That is the problem. He cannot accompany me. _They_ cannot accompany me. It is too dangerous.”

He scanned his fidgeting brother again, looking for what Sherlock would not say.

“You want me to help you fake your death.”

Sherlock nodded, gaze finally lifting from the tablecloth. “I will need funds. You will be able to access my accounts and forward what I need, and your position will allow you to help me track Moran.”

“And if I refuse?”

Hurt flashed in that familiar gaze. “Then I will do my best alone. You are the most protected, Mycroft. Moran will not target you, and even if he did, I did not fail to notice that your guards have increased. If I survive the confrontation with Moriarty, to return to London is a death sentence for all three of us until Moran is eliminated. I will not put them in danger. I also told you that months ago.”

He felt his gaze grow distant as he thought, assimilating Sherlock’s words and trying to find a different plan, one that would not risk so much.

“Do you really believe I have not thought this through?” his brother broke into his thoughts. “I do not _want_ to leave. There is no other option. I cannot keep them safe if I stay in London, three is too many to hide, and if I ask Watson to leave Mary behind, Moriarty would only capture her to lure Watson and capture Watson to reach me. If I survive, he cannot know. I would not blame him for hating me when and if I return, but I would rather have their safety than their friendship.”

“You know what this will do to him.”

“Of course, I know! I have not forgotten how angry he was after the Culverton Smith case, but he will be fine. He will have Mary, I will return as soon as I may, and you will be able to contact me should I need to return sooner. Will you help me or not?”

He sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples against the growing headache. “I do not think you will enjoy the results of this, Sherlock, but yes, I will help you.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks as he leaned his elbows on the table, his exhaustion briefly visible.

“Tell me about the case.”

His brother shook his head and pushed himself to his feet, gesturing to the pile of papers now resting on the table. “It is all in there. I intend to stop by Watson’s consulting room on my way to one of my bolt holes. Would you be amenable to driving him to the station tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. Meet him on the other side of the Lowther Arcade at a quarter past nine, and wear your red-tipped cloak so he recognizes you.”

The door clicked shut before Mycroft could respond, and he shook his head, staring at the papers in front of him with a frown. There was no way this would end well.


	14. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From One Sentence Stories chapter 5: Eye

There was nothing wrong with my eyes, but there was something wrong with my eyes.

I shook out the match and tossed it into the fireplace, blinking hard. My eyes watered as I had intended them to, but approximately an hour after waking, I still could not register anything besides darkness. I ignored the burn on my fingers as I forced myself to acknowledge the truth.

I was blind.

Our most recent case had ended at the docks, and I had sustained a minor concussion when our target had slammed me against the rail while trying to escape. Holmes had helped me treat it when we got home, but something had gone wrong in the night. The heat coming through the window put the time at around nine in the morning, yet I could see nothing but fuzzy outlines in a fog of darkness.

I clenched the bed as I forced down the panic that wanted to form at the inky blackness surrounding me. I had never liked not knowing my surroundings—a side effect of my time in Afghanistan—and knowing that I was in my room did nothing for the vulnerability I felt at being unable to see, but getting frustrated with my lack of sight would do nothing except bring Mrs. Hudson up asking questions I had no wish to answer; I had to decide what I wanted to do before someone came to see why I had not yet left my room. I could ask for help, I supposed, though I never liked announcing an injury, even one Holmes could treat. Holmes would know no more about this than I did, but, conceivably, I _could_ ask him or Mrs. Hudson to send for another doctor.

I doubted another doctor would be able to help, though. All he would tell me would be to get plenty of rest and give it time.

If another doctor would not be able to help, then there was no reason to send for one. As I had no wish to announce the problem until I had to, that really left me with only one option: avoid both Holmes and Mrs. Hudson until I had relearned the flat. Holmes would probably know as soon as he saw me, but I had heard him leave just after I woke. I would have a few hours before he returned, at least, and that might give me time to adjust enough to hide the signs. If I could avoid detection in the first couple of days, there was a chance the problem would fix itself as the concussion healed, and I would not have to tell them at all. I would tolerate the trouble of dealing with it by myself if it meant I could avoid some of the inevitable fussing that would commence as soon as they found out.

My biggest challenge would be getting around. I did not dare try to go outside for a while, but I would need to learn how to navigate the flat by orientation to and number of paces from various pieces of furniture. Harry and I had done that many times as children, and Holmes had dragged me out of bed for a midnight case often enough; it couldn’t be much more difficult to do it now, when I truly could not see.

I stood, took a single step toward the door, and immediately barked my shin on the end table.

Alright, so while it might not be difficult, it certainly would not be easy.

Remembering I had left my longest cane near my bed a few nights before, I knelt and felt the floor, looking for it. I only knocked it away once before managing to grab it, and I held it in front of me, more to keep from tripping than for balance—though I used it for that, too, occasionally. I had never noticed how much I used my sight for balance until I could no longer see, but I set to learning my bedroom before Mrs. Hudson came up to investigate the noise.

If the number of bruises I had in the space of a quarter of an hour was any indication, this was going to be a long day.


	15. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU of previous chapter

“Holmes?”

“There you are, Watson. I was beginning to wonder how long you were going to sleep this morning. You are just in time to watch an interesting part of this experiment.”

I leaned on the door frame as he jumped straight into telling me about the experiment he had started for his most recent case. The clinking of glass told me that he was still working with the chemistry set as he talked, and I waited, listening.

“…What do you make of that, Watson?” he finished, apparently having just made something change color. “You usually enjoy the more obvious reactions.”

“Holmes, look at me.”

“Or do you only enjoy the ones that explode? You never did clarify that last week.”

The clinking of glass continued, and I thought about turning and going back to my room. If he was not going to help, I would do better thinking alone, but I remained in the doorway, waiting for him to bring his attention out of the chemistry set. I knew how he would react if he figured it out on his own later, and while I would have preferred not telling him at all, now that I had started, I had to finish. I would not purposely cause the worry that would arise if I went back to my room now.

“Why are you lingering in the doorway? Hand me that notebook on your way by, would you?”

I sighed, accepting that he was not going to look up, and pushed myself off the door frame. I walked as steadily as I could, but as soon as he looked at me, he would know immediately what I had been trying to tell him.

I was confident the notebook he wanted was the one I had seen on the side table the night before, and I carefully shuffled towards it, one hand in front of me to make sure I did not run into anything. Five steps later, I noted, my grasping fingers found the notebook, and I changed direction, walking towards the heat radiating from the sun through the window.

“This one?” I asked as the clinking of glassware grew louder.

Silence answered me. He had either ignored the question or pointed to where he wanted it.

“Holmes?” I said, standing a few paces behind him, unwilling to risk knocking something over by coming closer.

“What is it? Just set it there. I will need it in a moment.”

“In answer to your question, I prefer experiments I can _see_.”

The glassware silenced as he froze, the full meaning behind my words washing over him, then something landed with a crash as he spun around.

“Is this the notebook you wanted?” I asked, holding it out in front of me.

He said nothing for a long moment, and I waited, unable to guess what he was thinking as I stared with sightless eyes.


	16. Juggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an AU that bit me while working on another oneshot

Holmes was juggling when I got home.

I stopped in the doorway, struggling not to laugh as my friend weaved around the room, seeking to stay beneath the balls he tossed into the air.

“Why are you trying to juggle?” I asked after watching him for a minute.

He fumbled. One landed on the table with a thump as he scowled at it, and I looked closer. Holmes was juggling apples, not balls. He directed his scowl at me when he noticed my smirk widen.

“Is this due to the clown we saw yesterday?” I asked. “I thought you said it was a worthless pastime?”

Our last case had ended at the local circus, and I had convinced him to walk with me as we watched the various performers go through their routines. It was worth listening to him grumble about the improbability of that display and the triviality of this performance to see the animals, watch the actors, and try to draw him into the show. He had affected a scowl for most of the afternoon, but after so many years, he could not fool me that easily. He had enjoyed it, if only as something to pick apart.

Finding him juggling in the sitting room the next day was further proof that he had enjoyed it, and his scowl deepened as I fought not to laugh.

“I told you I needed to add to my disguises,” he answered, picking the apple back up and beginning again.

“I thought only children ran away to join the circus,” I answered, still smirking as I moved toward the armchair he had pushed against the wall.

He harrumphed, dropping another one in the process, and tossed the apples onto his desk. When he joined me in putting the furniture back where it belonged, I glanced at his desk. The fruit was surely inedible by now, and I made a mental note to throw them out before they rotted in his desk.

“So why were you trying to juggle three apples?” I asked once the sitting room was back to how it was supposed to be.

“I told you: I need to add to my disguises.” He leaned back in his chair, still scowling at the grin I tried to hide. “It looks easy.”

I finally released the chuckle that had been building. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to judge the performance, now,” I said with a smirk before adding, “and if you need to disguise yourself as a clown, you will have bigger problems than just not knowing how to juggle.”

He raised an eyebrow, silently asking what I meant.

“Clowns are meant to be noticed, and a six-foot-tall clown will draw every child in the vicinity,” I said simply. He pulled a face, and I chuckled again. “Besides, you would do better infiltrating the support than the performers. However much you hear about it, running away to join the circus is usually the last thing people do.”

He studied me. “You never did.”

“Of course not, but I had to talk a friend out of it a time or two. He fell for that old wives’ tale and thought if he could only find one, he would not have to learn his father’s trade.”

A grin twitched his face. “People actually believe those?”

“Of course. How many times have you ranted about the crazy things people believe?”

He scowled at me, and I smirked again. My gaze landed on the bruised apples on his desk, and I pulled myself out of the chair and crossed the room.

“What are you doing?”

I did not answer immediately, picking up the apples to have two in my right hand.

“The key to juggling is how hard you throw the balls—or apples, in this case,” I told him, thoroughly enjoying the surprise that flashed across his gaze. “Watch my hands.”

Tossing the first apple nearly straight up, I quickly had all three apples rotating between my hands, none going higher than my forehead. It had been nearly twenty years since I had last juggled, but the surprise on his face was well worth it, especially when I started a yelp out of him by tossing one at his face.

He scowled at me for most of the afternoon, but he did let me teach him the technique, and I laughed heartily when I recognized a clown the next time a circus came into town.


	17. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No criminal wants to face the law

Halfway down the gangway, a cry of alarm sounded behind us. Running footsteps became a trip and tumble, and the escaping criminal rolled into my legs as I tried to turn around.

My bad leg buckled beneath me. I fell sideways, knocking into Holmes before crashing into the railing and rolling at an angle down the gangway as I fought to stop.

“Watson!” I heard simultaneous to a splash. I hoped Holmes had not fallen in, but I could not focus on that yet.

The walkway disappeared beneath me, and I frantically grabbed, searching for something, anything I could use to keep myself out of the cold water. My shoulder wound had taken my ability to swim, but we were high enough above the water that that may not matter. If I survived the fall, I would not stay afloat for more than a few minutes.

My grasping hand impacted a railing, and I grabbed hold, my knuckles turning white as I fought to keep my awkward grip. I had grabbed with my left hand, and I tried to hook the cane somehow still in my right hand around the upper rail. If I could hook the rail, I would have more leverage to pull myself back to the walkway. My left hand would not hold for long. Already, pain was lancing through my shoulder.

My first attempt missed, and I fought to keep my grip.

I made a second attempt, but I missed that one, too. I was running out of time.

I readjusted a small amount, aiming to toss my cane back to the gangway and grab the rail with my right hand, but another hand grasped mine before I could try that.

Holmes’ worried face—pale with fright—leaned over the edge, and he reached down to grab my belt with his other hand. Within a few seconds, I was back on the walkway, breathing heavily, and I leaned against the nearest pole as the lancing pain in my shoulder exploded.

“Watson?” he asked.

I did not answer. I could not answer, not when a spasm worse than any I had had since my initial injury tore through my left shoulder. I reflexively grabbed at the joint, bowing my head to hide my grimace.

“Watson, talk to me.” He tried to move my hand, to examine the joint I reflexively gripped.

If I opened my mouth, I knew the only thing that would come out would be a scream of pain. I locked my jaw shut but let him move my hand, allowing myself a soft moan as pure agony shot through my shoulder.

He felt along the scar tissue, gently looking for any sign of injury, and pain rippled as he moved closer to the center of the scar. I tried to relax, hoping that doing so would lessen the pain that dominated my awareness.

“Watson! Stay awake, Watson!”

That was a strange command, I mused, but I had little time to think on it. Another wave of pain washed over me, and I welcomed the blackness that promised to numb the agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh, a cliffy. What happens next? Even I don’t know yet. The snippet of a plot bunny that bit me ended there. Anyone want more?


	18. Time and Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is a strange thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cracktastic (Probably extremely OOC, too) little AU with a cameo trying to make it a crossover. This started out as a drabble, but kinda exploded…
> 
> Internet cookies to anyone who 1) recognizes the cameo and 2) knows the people referenced

“What do you think it is?”

Holmes moved around the strange, black and yellow contraption that had appeared behind our hotel on the outskirts of London. Sitting on four wheels each nearly a foot wide, it was like no bicycle I had ever seen, but a four-wheeled bicycle—perhaps a quad-cycle?—is what it most resembled. The seat approximated a bicycle seat more than a chair, with bicycle handlebars to serve as steering, and a series of metal bars crisscrossed back and forth over the areas in front of the handlebars and behind the seat. The handlebars sported so many levers, knobs, and buttons I had no idea if we should even be looking at it.

How could such a thing have ended up here?

“I think it is a carriage of some sort.”

I glanced up. “A carriage?” I repeated.

There was a short pause before he answered, still studying the contraption in front of us. “The handlebars steer the wheels, and that is obviously a seat, however strange it is to have a saddle seat on an open carriage.” He paused, thinking. “But there is nowhere to tether a horse, nor would a horse be able to pull such a heavy object…” He trailed off, circling to the vehicle’s other side before shoving hard against the black material fastened above the wheels.

“Aha!”

“What?” I came around to find him closely inspecting a large block of metal visible under the seat.

“This is its horse,” he asserted, still poking his way into the metal.

“A metal horse? Like those motorcars Benz started announcing a few months ago?”

“Exactly. It is a small, open motorcar. But how does it start?”

He moved around to the front, looking for the crank, but all he could find between the front wheels was a tightly coiled length of metal cable. I looked up by the seat, remembering an alternate design another inventor had been trying.

“This looks like a keyhole, Holmes.”

“And here is a key!” He pulled free a small box that had been stuck beneath the coiled wire. A key shone in the sunlight when he removed the box’s lid, and it slipped easily into the keyhole I had found. He turned the key.

Numbers and letters appeared on a small flat area at the base of the handlebars, but the engine remained silent.

“It must have a separate starter,” I said, expecting a comment about stating the obvious.

He ignored me, returning to examining the motor beneath the seat, and I studied the handlebars.

“Holmes?” I asked after a moment, waiting for him to make a sound of acknowledgement before continuing, “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place.”

He glanced up at me, raising an eyebrow. I kept studying something next to one handle, trying to decide if the design meant what I thought it might.

“You are treating it like a current invention, but Benz’s machines look nothing like this. His are much larger, and this motor is a fraction of the size of his motor.”

“Get to the point, Watson.”

“That is my point. Stop treating it as if it was made in the next city. Treat it as if it was made in the next century.”

He looked at me as if I had lost my mind, but I ignored him, pressing the small, square button that had caught my eye. Holmes nearly jumped backwards as the motor roared to life not twelve inches from his face.

“I do not think you will be able to write off the supernatural anymore, Holmes,” I said quietly, watching as the machine settled into an even rumble, idling in a way Benz had been trying to achieve for years. “How did this travel from whenever it was made to now?”

“That would be my fault.”

We spun around to see a young lady standing behind us wearing the strangest clothing. Faded blue trousers and a pink shirt similar to an undershirt but that was obviously meant to be the top layer hung loosely over her lithe frame. Long, blonde hair was pulled back in a simple braid that hung down her back, she carried some sort of thick, hard hat, and she wore the strangest pair of shoes I had ever seen. A pair of thin glasses rested high on her nose.

She visibly started as we turned, and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I was going to be surprised that you got it started, but if anyone could, it would be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” she told us, smirking. “What are you doing this far from Baker Street?”

“You have the advantage of us when it comes to names, Mrs…” Holmes trailed off, waiting for her to finish.

“I go by Grace,” she answered. “Miss Grace, if you need a prefix. I’m not married.”

“That is not an engagement ring,” he replied, his gaze flicking to her left hand. I glanced down and saw the small pink cross on her third finger that had caught his eye.

“It is not,” she confirmed, something very close to a smirk twitching her mouth. “It has a different purpose.”

Holmes opened his mouth to ask what that purpose was, but I cut him off to answer her question. “We just finished a case.” I gestured toward the still-rumbling machine next to us as I continued, “What is it?”

“We call it an ATV,” she answered as she circled the machine, apparently checking for damage. “That stands for All-Terrain Vehicle. It’s something like a meld between a—” she broke off, glancing up, “What year is it?”

“1886,” I replied, trying not to show my surprise at this confirmation that she had traveled through time.

“So you know what a motorcar is?” she checked. I nodded, and she finished her sentence, “between a bicycle, a carriage, and a motorcar.” Finished checking her machine, she glanced at a device on her wrist then studied us. “I have to be careful what I say and do,” she said with a smile, glancing between us, “but I can freely admit that I wish I could stay for a while, and not just to study a city over a hundred years before I was born. It would be dangerous for me to stay overlong, but I have some time before I can get home. Do you want a ride?”

Holmes frowned, still scanning her and deducing I had no idea how many things. He was taking this well, I thought, considering his staunch stance on anything “illogical.”

I wondered why she seemed so excited to meet us, but her expression reminded me of Holmes’ when he was bursting with news he could not share. “You would not make it to the street before you were surrounded,” I disputed instead of asking. “The sound alone is bound to have the Yard on the way.”

A quiet laugh escaped. “They can’t see or hear it. The only reason you can is because you noticed it before I got here. I had to learn that a _long_ time ago.”

“How did you get here?” Holmes finally asked the building question.

“Prank gone wrong,” she replied, turning off the engine and leaning against the machine to continue studying us. “My bratty little cousin apparently forgot that the travel aids his father gave him had much more power than he could ever hope to gain on his own. I’m pretty sure he tried to send me to China instead of the late eighteen-hundreds. Can you tell me about your case?”

Holmes ignored her question again. “Your…cousin sent you back in time?” The confusion in his gaze nearly made me laugh aloud. The lady in front of us was barely in her mid-twenties, yet someone younger than her had successfully time traveled, no matter how accidently. What other things were possible in her time?

“Yup.” She laughed again at our surprised expressions. “Suffice to say his dad is _really_ powerful. Thankfully, so are my mother and great grandfather. I swiped one of the travel devices to study it, but it won’t work for me until the shadows lengthen.”

“What do the shadows have to do with it?”

She shook her head, refusing to answer Holmes’ question. “Can you tell me about your case?” she asked again.

I shook my head, frowning at having to deny her request. It would do no harm to tell her, but, “We promised not to speak of it.”

She nodded, easily accepting that. “That’s a shame. I’m sure it would be interesting to hear. My offer of a ride still stands, though. Do you want a short ride on a machine that won’t be invented for another hundred years or so?”

I knew I did, but I looked over at Holmes, letting him make the decision. He hesitated for a long moment but finally nodded, and I felt a smile escape.

“You don’t have helmets,” she said, gesturing to the thick hat she held, “so we won’t go very fast. One of you will have to sit on the front, but I have a seat the other can use.”

Holmes waved me toward the seat and nimbly claimed the metal bars on the front of the machine, and I looked back at Miss Grace to see her wrestling a two-foot wide pad into place.

“Where the blazes did you get that?” I blurted.

She laughed, waving off my apologies. “I can fit a lot in my bag,” she said simply, pointing to a silvery bag I hadn’t noticed hanging limply on her back.

I decided it was probably safer not to comment, and she showed me how to reach the seat before stepping aside to let me sit down. The seat was a thick, firm cushion, and my feet rested relatively comfortably on a metal grate suspended between the wheels.

Once I stopped adjusting, she stepped up to reach the handlebars, then stopped, glanced at me, and stepped back to the ground.

“You have difference cultural norms than I do,” she said, apparently just remembering. “I see nothing wrong with carrying a passenger, but is it going to be a problem for me to stand directly in front of you?”

I glanced between her and the seat, quickly realizing she meant to stand mere inches in front of me.

I hesitated for a moment too long, and she nodded. “Get back up and we can reorganize. I will only be able to take one at a time, but I can still give each of you a quick ride.”

“No,” I said quickly. “It is alright. I just did not expect it. You frequently carry a passenger like this?”

“All the time,” she answered, quickly swinging a leg over the seat to stand in front of me. “You can grab the cargo rack—that’s the metal bars—if you need to, but the road is level and we won’t go that fast. Is this alright?”

She had placed her feet on the forwardmost part of the metal grate, straddling the seat to see around where Holmes sat. The bag hanging limply from her shoulders shimmered faintly silver barely six inches from my nose.

I wrapped a hand around the closest bar. “Ready,” I answered.

The machine rumbled to life, then lurched as she hit a button, and we rolled forward barely slower than a fast walk, bouncing slightly over the uneven ground as she took us toward the street. Coming out from behind the building, we pulled onto the strangely empty road, and Miss Grace called a warning to hold on just before the engine roared. We sped down the road faster than anyone would dare ride a horse, and I let out an involuntary laugh. Holmes glanced back with a grin of his own, daring to take one hand off the bar he had been gripping. This was amazing!

Turning around at the next intersection, we raced back to the hotel in the same manner, and I made no attempt to hide my grin as she stepped onto solid ground.

“Fun, isn’t it?” she asked with a smirk.

Holmes could not quite kill his own smile, and it grew slightly larger as he offered his hand to help me off the saddle-seat.

“Certainly,” was my nearly breathless reply. “For what do you use it?”

“An ATV transports easily and can go places our other vehicles can’t reach,” she answered, removing the cushion I had used and somehow sliding it into that silvery bag. “Growing up, my dad and I used one to climb mountains for the fun of it, but I was supposed to be using this one to pick up supplies from the barracks. Peter will be wondering if I got lost.”

I nearly voiced a question about who Peter was but decided against it. “Thank you for the ride, Miss Grace,” I said instead.

Holmes nodded agreement but asked a question of his own. “How will you get home?”

Slinging her bag back over her shoulders, she reached a hand into her pocket and brought out a small, black pearl. “My great uncle made them first,” she said, “but his brother modified the idea to use shadows instead of saltwater. Both are eternal, but saltwater is harder to find.” The pearl disappeared into her hand, and she studied us for a moment, evidently making a decision. “You cannot tell anyone about me. They would not believe you if you did, and it might make it dangerous in my time. Give me your word you will reveal nothing about my visit to another, please.”

We agreed easily, and she relaxed. “That’s one good thing about the eighteen-hundreds,” she muttered, fiddling with something on one handle. With one last adjustment, she stood and walked to a tree about ten feet in front of her machine.

“Stay over there,” she ordered. “If you are too close, you will come, too.”

Both of us took a large step back, and she smirked, placing the pearl on a cleared spot of earth.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” she said on her way back to the machine, offering to shake hands. She had a firm handshake very unlike the limp hand most ladies offered.

“Likewise,” I returned in unison with Holmes. He hated when I did that, and he scowled at me. I covered a smirk as she turned to walk back towards the ATV.

Putting a hand to my pocket, I exchanged a look with Holmes before speaking up. “Miss Grace?”

She looked over from where she had been securing a hook on the front cargo rack, and I withdrew a journal from my pocket.

“I have already copied these case notes for our records,” I said, “but my promise does not prevent you reading them, given the time difference. I would like you to have them.”

Her jaw dropped, and she hurried back over as a large grin split her face. “Seriously?”

I nodded, wondering why she was so excited, and her grin widened as I handed her the journal.

“Thank you!”

“You are most welcome.”

Nearly hugging the journal, she shook our hands again before slipping the book in that silvery bag.

“I am glad he sent me here,” she told us as she mounted her vehicle, a smile still splitting her face, “and even more glad you happened by. I wish I could stay longer, or say we would meet again, but…” She let the sentence trail off with a shrug. “My cousin is going to be in _so_ much trouble when his dad finds out, and I would hate to be stuck in Victorian England. Women can’t do _anything_ here.” She gave a comical shiver, smirking when I chuckled.

She checked the flat area in front of the seat before glancing up in parting. “May I give some advice, considering your future is my history?” We nodded, and she looked at Holmes first. He raised an eyebrow. “Actions are great, but sometimes words need to back them up. I hope you learn that before you lose the greatest gift another person could ever give you.” He frowned, considering her words, and she looked over at me.

“Keep writing those stories, Doctor, and don’t get discouraged if publishers reject them. My brother and sister are going to be extremely jealous I met London’s crime-solving team.” She pulled her bag tighter over her shoulders, as if checking it was still there, and it seemed to grow heavier for the briefest moment, sagging down her back before going limp again.

I am sure my jaw fell open, and she laughed as the engine revved. A farewell mixed with the sounds of the engine, and she shot forward, crushing the pearl under one wheel. In an instant, Holmes and I were alone once again.

Neither of us said anything for a long moment.

“Well,” Holmes finally broke the silence, “she was certainly a character.”

“The future is apparently very different,” I agreed, following him back towards our rooms. Her words echoed in my mind, and my thoughts flicked to the manuscripts sitting on my desk beneath a pile of rejection letters.

Silence fell again, and this time it remained unbroken. I had no words to put to such an experience, and I knew Holmes would want to think it over before speaking of it even with me. We had been planning on taking a walk when we first noticed the machine, but after that ride, I think I preferred a drink in front of the fire. My pulse still raced from traveling at such a speed, and I needed some time to absorb the personality that was Miss Grace.

I poured us each a drink when we reached our rooms, and we passed a silent evening in borrowed armchairs, each mulling over a future that could create such an unusual young lady.

I found myself rather hoping I would get to see part of the change that would have to occur for such a future to be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, Grace, is a really old OC from when I wrote Percy Jackson. You can find her story in my Life of a Demigod stories over on Fanfiction.net


	19. Paying Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day

I wrestled my bag down the stairs, wishing I had not left my motorcar here. This would have been much simpler if I could have driven straight to the cottage, but my ‘car had gotten a flat tire not a hundred feet from the door the previous weekend, and there had not been time to fix it before I was needed in London. Holmes had promised to have it fixed during the week, but I had been forced to take the train to finish the sale of my house and get the last of my belongings from London.

The conductor deposited my trunk on the platform, and I thanked him as I scanned the station for a familiar face. A few people milled here and there about the platform, greeting passengers, waiting for the next train, and gathering luggage, but I saw no sign of Holmes.

He had probably lost track of time studying his bees, I decided, and I leaned down to grab a couple of items from my trunk. I would not be able to carry it alone, but we could always come back for it later. I saw no reason to wait when I could quite easily walk to the cottage.

Closing the trunk and locking it, I glanced around the station once more before leaving, and this time I spotted Holmes on the far side, my motorcar near the platform behind him. He sat on a bench near the main exit, his gaze quickly flicking between faces. He checked every person that walked the platform, watching for me, but the station itself partially obscured my car. I grinned.

Quickly asking the stationmaster to take my trunk to the motorcar, I ducked behind the building and worked my way around to come up directly behind him. Stopping a few feet from the bench, I patiently waited for the other passengers to clear out, hoping they would not give me away. One or two recognized me from my many visits, but they did no more than cover a smirk before hurrying down the platform, thankfully avoiding tipping Holmes off that I was directly behind him.

His posture changed as the station emptied and the train began pulling away, and I knew he was frowning, wondering why I had missed my train. He turned his head to look at two men talking at the other end of the platform, and I edged forward, sitting next to him while his back was turned.

“Who are we waiting on?” I asked, desperately trying to kill my smirk that I had managed to creep up on him.

He tensed, closer to startling than I had seen him in years, and spun to stare at me. I could not restrain a laugh at the pure surprise in his gaze. That made three times in as many months that I had been able to surprise him—a definite record when _one_ was so rare—and my laugh turned into a smirk as his surprise faded to irritation.

“Don’t scowl so,” I admonished him, still grinning as we stood. “You are the one that has been trying to convince me to move for so many years. After all those years in Baker Street, you ought to know what to expect.”

He allowed the scowl to change into a twitched grin. “Where is your trunk?” he asked, glancing around the building at where I had stepped off the train.

“Holmes.” He turned back towards me, and I gestured him a few steps to his left, pointing as he came within sight of where he had parked the motorcar behind the platform. My trunk rested in the back, and Holmes gave an irritated huff at my chuckle.

“I told you it was possible to pay too much attention.”

He finally rolled his eyes at me. “I cannot pay too much attention when you are in a pawky mood,” he replied, not quite hiding his amusement under irritation.

I smirked. “Apparently, you can, considering I was able to load my trunk _and_ sit beside you without your notice.”

He declined to answer, and we fell silent as we stepped off the platform. Claiming he wanted to practice his driving skills, he steadied me with a hand on my arm as I lowered myself into the passenger seat, and we soon left the station behind. Holmes started talking as we drove toward the cottage, telling me all about various things that had happened in the last week, and I leaned back in the seat as he began nearly rambling about his bees, allowing a faint grin to escape.

He did not have to say the words for me to know he was glad I was here.


	20. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to #17. Escape

“Watson! Stay awake, Watson!”

His friend made no answer, slumping further against the railing as darkness took him, and Holmes grabbed Watson’s uninjured shoulder before he could fall between the rails. Watson had been clutching his shoulder, but the doctor was too accustomed to the lingering pain of his old wounds to lose consciousness from that, and Holmes wondered if there was some other injury he could not see.

Gently turning his friend to lay safely on the walkway, he called Watson’s name, trying to rouse him. His worry grew when the doctor remained still, silent, and he continued trying as he began looking for injuries.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Holmes tore his worried gaze away from his friend barely long enough to see Lestrade hurrying towards them, and Holmes cut off Lestrade’s forming question. “Where is his medical bag?”

“In the police wagon,” Lestrade answered. “Bennet!” A young constable spun away from the group of Yarders at the base of the gangway. “Get the doctor’s bag from the wagon!”

The constable bolted away, headed for the nearest street, and Holmes felt Lestrade kneel next to him but didn’t look up as he ran a careful hand over Watson’s shoulder, searching for any sign of injury.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked, joining Holmes in checking Watson, though with rather less skill.

Holmes’ gaze remained fixed on Watson’s face, looking for any indication that his friend was rousing even as he searched for swelling, dislocation, and anything else that could have caused Watson such pain. “The imbecile tripped him after escaping you,” he finally answered, referring to the smuggler they had caught on the ship’s deck. He left it at that, not wanting to recall the absolute terror he had both seen on Watson’s face and felt on his own when Watson went over the edge. If Holmes had not reached him in time…

He shoved the thought away, using Bennet’s arrival to distract his active imagination from the what-ifs trying to plague him. Watson had _not_ fallen, and he _would_ not—not while Holmes was there. He needed to focus on what _had_ happened, namely that Watson was injured and needed help.

He could find nothing wrong with the shoulder other than the deep bruise beginning to form, and he carefully checked for other injuries before beginning to immobilize the joint. His worry grew the longer Watson remained unconscious, and he hoped he had not missed another injury.

Watson still had not roused when he finished with the sling, and he checked again for other injuries but found nothing. A frown crossed his face. Why had Watson lost consciousness?

“What can I do?”

Lestrade’s voice broke into his worried ruminations, and he glanced up. He had nearly forgotten the inspector was there. “Help me move him to that bench,” he answered shortly, gesturing to the one nearest the gangway.

It took only a couple of minutes to lay the doctor on the bench with Holmes for a pillow, and he smothered another worried frown when Watson never moved, unwilling to show such a thing even to Lestrade.

“You caught him?” Holmes finally asked, refusing to voice the man’s name. There were few things that could make him despise someone, but he had disliked the smuggler _before_ he had injured Watson and saw no reason to grant the man a name now.

Lestrade did not answer immediately, but Holmes never looked up, more focused on his friend than the conversation. What had made Watson lose consciousness? Did he have another injury that Holmes had not found? His friend had been teaching him medicine for many years, but there was always a chance that he had missed something.

Watson needed to wake up, to tell him what was wrong so he would know how to help.

“He’s dead.”

_No!_

Holmes felt his breath catch in his throat, thinking for one horrible instant that Lestrade meant Watson.

Then his brain caught up, quickly noting that he had just asked about their smuggler and that Watson was still breathing evenly. He exhaled, finally remembering the splash he had faintly registered when trying to reach Watson.

“Drowned?” he confirmed shortly, still watching Watson breathe.

“Probably.”

Holmes glanced up, barely refraining from voicing a cutting remark about the incompetency of the Yard if they could not determine that a man pulled from the river had drowned.

“He fell off the walkway to hit head first,” Lestrade explained.

Holmes nodded sharply, understanding. Entering the water head first from such a height had probably broken the man’s neck. Drowning would have been secondary.

“Do I need to call someone?” Lestrade asked when Holmes made no answer, his gaze again locked on Watson.

Holmes hesitated but shook his head. “He should wake in a few minutes, and Tim is still nearby should something change before you return with the niece. You plan to inform her here, correct?”

Lestrade nodded. “I think she will take it better here than at the station, and she does not yet know what he was truly smuggling.”

“She will take it better seeing the evidence,” Holmes agreed distractedly, still monitoring Watson. He said nothing more, and silence fell. He barely noticed when Lestrade left.

The minutes seemed intermittent, elongating into ages as he waited for Watson to wake. His worry increased every second Watson remained still, and he checked again for other injuries. Had Watson hit his head on the rail when he fell?

There was no knot, no sign of other injury, but Watson finally stirred at the touch. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back. Watson hated waking to find someone leaning over him, but Holmes could not force himself to move away completely, watching intently for the doctor to open his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories! :)


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